


Now I'm Just Broken Glass

by mars_morpheus



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Sad, i guess, i just have a lot of feelings, jim gordon bashing, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:26:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24190537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mars_morpheus/pseuds/mars_morpheus
Summary: All he did was hate, now.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Now I'm Just Broken Glass

The ceiling, at least, might never change. The relative darkness of his cell sharpened the contrast between its mottled stains and surfaces. Jerome had been staring up at it every night for what felt like decades, though he knew from the calendar in the dining hall and the scratches on the wall under his bed that it had only been a month and a half. He was running out of wall space. The tally marks were under the bed for a reason: for vanity's sake, or security's. A person in complete control did not count the days. And that was how he must present himself, at least if he didn't want this hellhole to get the best of him.

He'd never forgive James Gordon. Jerome may have broken the law, but he knew it, too, and throwing a seventeen-year-old into Arkham Asylum went against quite a few rules. Without even a proper psych evaluation, no less. Jerome knew he hadn't been crazy when he got here, but now? He thought sometimes that he might be starting to lose it.

James Gordon. He scoffed, lying on the bed with his arms crossed over his chest. His hatred for the detective was of a special variety. It had been simmering for this month and a half. Not for catching him, for piecing all the clues together that Lila Valeska’s death had been matricide: Jim was smart, and Jerome had guessed from the beginning that things would head in that direction. No, no. Jim was blind, and that was what Jerome hated most of all. He was blind to his own corruption, his own little slice of insanity.

It was like something Jerome remembered hearing about, once, some philosopher. Everyone’s an egoist, it went. Everyone’s in it for number one, to make themselves feel good. Some people know it, accept it, thrive on it. Some people don’t, and they feed their egos by tricking themselves into believing that they are good. Well, Jim Gordon was the very definition of the second type. He thought he was the only good cop in Gotham, the hero. He had everyone fooled. That was the thing – Jerome, even, had thought that maybe it was the truth. Jim had shown up outside his trailer, promised to put things right. He’d looked at him with kindness in his eyes. Jerome hated those eyes, that face, so willing to see the good in him – willing, that is, until he’d shed the smooth hair, the tears, the innocence – no, then Jim had looked at him with a curl in his lip. Like Jerome was an imposter in his hand-me-down sweater.

He’d seen through him. He’d seen everything – even the father Jerome had never known was his, just to air it out in the midst of the interrogation. And yet at the same time, he was so blind. The great genius detective. As soon as he had somebody to blame, to – to demonise, he dropped it. That was it. Every detail mattered to him, just until he’d found his bad guy. Never mind Jerome’s age, never mind the little bloodstain on the collar of his sweater, never mind his mother’s thrown beer bottles, his uncle’s choking hands, the endless cycle of nameless but never-faceless men beating him bloody.

That was another thing – Jerome couldn’t make himself forget. No matter what he did. There was some word for it, probably, a scientific explanation for why he remembered every face, every bruise. He remembered the labyrinths his brother used to draw everywhere.

He didn’t like to think about his brother much. He’d stopped digging holes around the edges of the circus around age twelve, after five years of looking for the body he knew, deep down, he wouldn’t find. He’d never looked for his mother’s lover, the one she’d seen that night. He was too afraid too, and by now it was too late. But, god, he wished it’d been him. Jeremiah wasn’t as strong as he was, and his leg had been broken then, when they were seven. Jeremiah couldn’t have even tried to run away on that leg. He’d broken it two weeks before – Jerome couldn’t forget – falling out of an apple tree they’d found in the woods. There’d been a worm in Jerome’s apple. Jeremiah tried to reach the last one. He claimed to be a little taller. It was stupid. It was Jerome’s fault. He hated apples, now.

All he did was hate.

He pulled the sides of his mouth up and out in mockery of a smile. He laughed. It wasn’t his real laugh, just the cackle he used when he thought he might cry, or when he wanted to scare somebody. It was what he was known for. It reinforced his psycho act. Was it an act? Less and less. His mind was changing. Mutating. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he was just crazy. That was the difference between him and the ceiling he stared at. It didn’t change. It didn’t crack or shift. It hadn’t yet, unless he counted the shapes and faces he’d imagined within its stains. But that said more about him than about the ceiling.

A car honked somewhere outside, vaguely audible through the barred window. The night must be ending. Another night without sleep. Another day ahead. He chuckled. To wake, perchance not to dream. But he knew that that was wishful thinking.


End file.
